


Holiday On Death Row

by Solitary_Shadow



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Absurd, Black Comedy, Fantastical, M/M, Metafiction, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:29:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rammstein takes a little, well-meant break from recording. It isn't long before everything goes to hell. After all, if music is their therapy for their destructive tendencies and angst, and they're not producing it anymore after being right in the middle of it - where else can all that emotion go? [An interpretation of Keine Lust, set around early July to early September 2004. Till/Richard and Paul/Flake hints but nothing especially lasting or important. Read all warnings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday On Death Row

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Songfic of sorts. Spoilers for Keine Lust. Depressing content, fantastical aspects, absurdism, emotional instability, deconstruction of teamwork, porn watching, offensive, men punching other men, black comedy, strong language, quasi-philosophical rambling, tastelessness, sexual themes (not graphic), political correctness and incorrectness, and Jean-Paul Sartre. Trigger warnings for car crashes, anorexia and painful breakdowns of people-to-people relationships. Nobody dies.
> 
> This may or may not be a good thing.

**Holiday On Death Row - A Rammstein Fanfiction**  
  
\------------------------------------  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
Flake has a nightmare the first night of their hiatus, filled up on beer and chicken. Not even especially good chicken. No, breaded and fried in the dreaded Southern American way, bought from a nearby fast food chain. This is not a fanfic regarding the pros and cons of Americanization, however; that is a task left to another work. So for the moment it is important to establish that he _did enjoy the chicken_ (if a little guiltily) along with the rest of his bandmates and did make a mental note to try to recreate the recipe.  
  
He won't, though. No one ever has. The recipe is a top secret.  
  
Perhaps it is this unsettling fact that's made him have the nightmare. Flake is not a man who likes things with no answers. Either that or it's a mix of indigestion and exhaustion.  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
He is fat. Massively, enormously fat, drowning in the folds of his own skin. As he has never had anything worth mentioning as 'bulk' in his entire career, even within a dream this is a very uncomfortable experience. He's hooked up to a respirator, lying on a hospital bed. All five of his bandmates are sitting around him, decked in fine suits and grinning unnaturally.   
  
"Oh, you're awake," Richard says cheerfully. They have a bottle of very expensive champagne with them; the guitarist pours him some and then a glass for his own. The rest follows, and he can do nothing but stare as five different glasses are raised in the air. "we came here to tell you about some good news and some bad news; but before all that, I'd like to say: to our wealth, fame and friendship, _prosit!_ "   
  
Flake stares, unable to respond or move. The five chants a melodious ' _Prosit!_ ' back, either sip at or down their champagne in one go, and then turn back to the keyboardist. "As you'd know, we've become enormously successful with this album. They all say that the first two albums are always the freshest and the fastest-produced ones, and that the third is the difficult hurdle that you have to jump over - but we've passed that test! We're one of the chosen ones now. The beautiful and famous ones who'd hopefully remain that way even when, well, we're dead."  
  
What's that got to do with me? Flake thinks.  
  
"The only way to be successful is to continuously self-invent," Paul takes up the narrative. "you've done us massive service, Flake. We wouldn't have ever sounded like Rammstein without you. But the thing is - and this is the bad news - with you in this condition it's hard for the rest of us to be validated, so we've chosen to go with the utilitarian approach..."  
  
"The maximum pleasure for the maximum amount of people," Schneider says, and reaches out. "don't think too badly of us, Flake. We have a dinner reservation to go to now."   
  
Then he turns off the respirator.  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
Flake is jolted awake at that point, covered with sweat; no mind is even paid to the fact that it was all just a dream, he's just focused on staggering to the bathroom, stepping over his bandmates in the dark. He treads on Till's right hand - at least he thinks it's Till's - at some point but he doesn't even stir. Come to think of it, it's so dark that he can't actually figure out where the door leading outside is; Flake stands frozen for a long time, feeling horribly sick to the stomach. Vaguely in the depths of his mind he recalls that Paul took the sleeping place closest to the door.  
  
But where is Paul?  
  
He's lost amongst a sea of corpses, locked in with the stench of anonymity. This makes his usually-cool demeanor falter once and for all, and he lets out a helpless whimper, groping around him for some indication of where he's going. On his third try his hand slams into a wall, and even though it hurts him it brings him relief. He now has something to follow.   
  
**Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
Kneeling in front of the porcelain throne he takes a deep breath and finally manages to hurl. He doesn't look at the contents of the bowl as he flushes, then gets up and washes his face in the sink with hot water, feeling his stomach settle almost immediately.   
  
He pinches at the flesh near his waist. Not a lot, he's still a very thin man. Or maybe he's not thin enough? Deciding to find out, he sheds his clothes and stands on the scales naked. It takes him a few seconds to squint beyond his steamed glasses and read the number on the scale: 75kg. He's 193cm tall, still comfortably at normal weight - but this is still more than what he weighed some years back. Flake frowns and looks down at himself again. Now with an actual number on the scale to refer to, he does think that the dream was right, he's become heavier without doubt. All those months of unhealthy and out-of-schedule eating probably did it, whilst they were trying to get their album out. Destroying one's health for wealth and fame. Hardly recommendable.  
  
Well, that's why they've taken a rest. The album is pretty much done except for the last couple of tracks, and they're still going to release it in September as planned. Two months of hiatus (or summer holiday, he finds that a more accurate term) and he'll be okay. They can't go anywhere significant or leave the house for those two months; all their recordings and instruments are here and someone's got to keep an eye on them. A break is still a break, though, and he's sure that he'll find ways to keep himself occupied. Reassured that the dream was only telling him to rest, he smiles weakly at himself in the mirror. "We'll cut all that fat down to size," he tells himself, forcing himself to sound hopeful. He'll take long walks, call up his daughter, read - work and eat as little as possible. No more cheesecake feasts in the middle of the night for all six of them. Yes, that should do it.   
  
In fact, he won't cook anything at all.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Ich habe keine Lust mich nicht zu hassen**  
  
Richard wasn't going to do this for a while, but him being divorced and lonely makes it excusable.  
  
When he's alone in the house, he has certain rituals that he goes through. Before then making music all day was sufficient. It made him forget, feel better about himself, and kept him less of an asshole to other people - but now that they're all trying to give themselves a bout of fresh air, it's no longer an option. It's been a jarring change for him, going on a sudden, non-expected hiatus when they're so close to finishing their new album; to him it'd have made more sense for them to press ahead and finish it, _then_ take a break, _then_ move on to releasing it, touring for it, shelving it or whatever. But that's just his thought, and what's he going to do with a house full of the opposite opinion?   
  
Ah, well, he's still coping; two weeks is enough to get used to those things. Every day he wakes up, makes some food, goes outside to feed stray cats, then he showers and gets dressed. After that he might read, talk with Khira Li on the phone, sit staring at his locked-up guitars, fantasize about murdering or having sex with his friends - or if all else fails he does housekeeping. Like now. Olli has left a bundle of yet-untrimmed flowers, new and healthy from a dingy corner shop, on the kitchen table.   
  
"Ah, tulips," he exclaims brightly. " _freshly dead_ tulips. My favourite."  
  
He takes the shears to them, freeing the tulips of their heavy-red heads and stuffing them into the trash, while he fills up the crystal vase with water and a couple teaspoonfuls of sugar. Glucose makes for lovely plant food. The arrangement is then completed with the stems placed into the vase; Richard smiles at his handiwork, closes the trashcan, and decides to celebrate with a drink and some alone time. There's nothing but cooking sherry to get drunk on. Cooking sherry it is, then. He takes the whole bottle with him and boots up his laptop, getting up and pushing his bedroom door closed as an afterthought, kicking off his slippers and leaning back.  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust mich anzufassen**  
  
The internet is a wretched hive, but Richard has guilty pleasures regarding it. He stays far away from their own fandom and those creepy things called 'slash fanfic', whatever they are - he doesn't mind them as long as he can avoid them and nobody mails them any. It happened once. Paul read it out, and thankfully it was a sufficiently terrible one that they could just laugh at it and use it for kindling.   
  
It's his favourite hobby. He surfs the internet when no one is home, sound up loud and sitting on his bed, browsing anything from the most innocent to the filthiest thing that he can find. It's always a pleasure to look back at himself a few hours from when he started and realize that he's somehow gone from kittens to Molotov cocktails; but inevitably, no matter how long it takes, it ends up at porn.   
  
**Ich hätte Lust zu onanieren**  
  
He can't really help it. Porn is arousing, when it's not being hilarious; and it's hilarious, when it's not being arousing. The most perfect combination. He's just scrolling through a giant archive of who-knows-what, watching bits and pieces that catch his attention. Guys on guys, girls on girls, guys on girls or vice versa, midgets, pizza delivery boys, animated. The world is an insatiably horny and weird place, but Richard isn't complaining.   
  
Without really realizing it, Richard slips a hand down his trousers, absent-mindedly toying with himself. He's not really aroused, it's more of a habit; but either way, it's that compromising position that he's found in when Till comes back and opens the door without knocking. Of course he's not meant to be back yet - he was meant to be having lunch with his mother and his daughter, but Nele's gotten a case of the summer flu and isn't up to going anywhere. So he simply gave them some gifts, made new arrangements for next week, and drove straight back, tired and quite ready to take a long rest. Richard doesn't know any of this (yet), so when Till bursts in he can only gape ahead and blush furiously at being caught.  
  
Till looks at him, looks at a box of tissues nearly, and then stares ahead as the sounds of manufactured porn echo in the room. He blinks, neither angry, amused or even bemused. It is with massive effort that Richard actually moves to pause the video and sheepishly slip his hand from out of his pants. "I, um, can explain..."  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust es zu probieren**  
  
Till raises one eyebrow, making a face that could be either of disgust or of curiosity. "Huh," he mumbles - but he doesn't turn to go. Instead he walks forwards and sits down next to Richard, peering curiously at the screen, clicking the video and putting it back on play. "cooking sherry is a load of crap. Would you like a beer?" he says calmly, pulling one out of the plastic bag that he's been holding.  
  
" _D - danke..._ "  
  
Richard takes the beer, but he remains so utterly mortified that he doesn't drink it; it warms under his cupped hands as he sits still, utterly embarrassed at being caught. Till opens his beer - wrinkles his nose a little as a drop spatters onto his thumb, licking it off like a cat almost - and watches for a while. "You like this?"  
  
"It's... it's interesting."  
  
The older man makes a small humming noise, thinking about it. He then briefly gets off the bed, puts the beer aside, and strips off his clothes. Beckoning Richard up, he does the same to the other; his fingers nimbly work at the buttons on the guitarist's shirt as if he were shelling peas, and soon they're back on the bed, wearing nothing but underwear. Richard, now hopelessly confused, looks over at Till - he's not aroused in the slightest, though what he can see of the man through the outline on the fabric is still impressive. Then the singer gestures at him to keep watching the porn, so he does.  
  
 **Ich hätte Lust mich auszuziehen**  
  
The pressure of Till sitting there, sharing some twisted sort of naked brotherhood with him, is slowly getting to Richard's nerves. Is he angry? Is this a test? What does he want to do? Is this some sort of bonding activity that guys do with each other?   
  
Thinking about Till, though, and porn at the same time - it just so happens to be gay porn - is making him blush, though, and when the man turns away to put his empty beer can aside he too looks away from the screen to pay attention to the other's body. Nicely toned, except perhaps a bit of stomach, but there's nothing wrong with a little bit of fluff on a man. As previously mentioned, now that he's divorced and no longer has a readily-available partner, he's taken to fantasizing about his bandmates when he's not daydreaming about murdering them. They're not on tour so no groupies, he's not all that willing to go picking up anyone or paying for sex, so the mind makes do with what it can. Till's a bit different though, he likes to imagine. After all, he's the one who threw Richard's coke stash away and told him to pull himself together, made meals for him, and offered a rough form of counselling when the guitarist was depressed as hell. That's not quite the same as stray, wishful thinking. He and the singer perhaps have a closer connection that he can tap into.  
  
"Look at that," Till says, breaking him out of his thoughts. The man on the bottom is now wearing a bit gag and is pinned against the wall while the one on top paints him with whipped cream. "interesting."  
  
Richard twiddles his thumbs shyly and then looks up. "... I like you more?" he tries, his voice coming out so tiny that he immediately decides to not repeat himself should Till ask. Till does hear, but he does remains silent for over a minute, ignoring Richard for all of that time, before he finally opens his mouth.  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust mich nackt zu sehen**  
  
"I'm rough. I'm large. I'm gruff and I hate people. People still find me irresistible. They think I have some sort of secret," he looks into Richard's eyes. "I'm disgusting but I still get lots of sex. Therefore...?"  
  
"...?"  
  
"Come on, Kruspe-Bernstein, work it out."  
  
"Don't call me that."  
  
"Therefore I must be very good at it, yes?"  
  
Richard looks down. "Do you think about having sex with me, then?"  
  
"I think about having sex with everyone."  
  
"Would it make you happy?"  
  
"Happy is not the right word."  
  
"Would you enjoy it?"  
  
Till says nothing, and just looks at him blankly. Seeing that the discussion will not progress any further with words alone, Richard takes a deep breath - and pushes the laptop away, grasping at the waistband of the other's boxers instead. The video keeps playing in the background, fake moans mingling with real ones, at least for about two minutes before the video ends and black nothing takes over the screen.   
  
**Ich hätte Lust mit grossen Tieren**  
  
As Till's about to come he makes a little sound, and Richard tries to look up; but he forcefully holds him down and takes another inhale from the bottle of cooking sherry, coming in the other's mouth not long after. Only then does he let Richard go, and the younger man sits up, tears from the pressure glistening in his eyes as he swallows thickly. "Me next?" he asks hoarsely.   
  
"No."  
  
"... _No?_ "  
  
"Did you enjoy that?"  
  
There is no answer. Till waits for about three seconds before a cynical smile crosses his face. "I don't blame you. And now you understand what I mean."  
  
Richard looks down. "I... I wanted to look at your face when you came..."  
  
"Nothing to be curious about. I look like every other stupid fucker," the singer sighs heavily and leans against the wall, pulling up his boxers. "Gott. I can't stand post-coital chats. There never is anything worthwhile to talk about."  
  
"Then why-"  
  
"I'm bored," Till says flatly. "and I've got writer's block."  
  
"I thought you were meant to be good at it. Is everyone this disappointed?"  
  
"Not when I try."  
  
Richard stares at him, mouth trembling. "... Then why didn't you?"  
  
"Poorly developed relationships, _mein Freund_. Poorly developed relationships. Nobody falls in love just because an external presence tries to force it in writing. I would rather stay true to my own principles, because that's what differentiates us from animals and I have no intention of behaving like one. If the development is terrible, then so is the sex by default, readers' disappointment be damned," the younger man stares at him, confused beyond belief. "great sex never rose out of nothing."  
  
"But I'm not _nothing_ , I'm your - your best friend, your _lead guitarist_ , how can you..."  
  
"Face it, Risch," Till mumbles as he gets dressed and takes the bottle of cooking sherry with him. "anyone in the world, anyone you can think of. Somewhere, someone got bored of fucking them."  
  
There's not much left for Richard to do then except to curl up and resist the urge to cry or to break something,  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust es zu riskieren**  
  
He takes a third option. He begins to plot his revenge the moment Till leaves him, reverting into an almost deathly calm as he too picks himself up, turns off his laptop and goes for a shower.  
  
It is three days before grocery shopping needs doing and he can put his plan into action. Even though they always come back with large amounts of food, there are six of them after all, and it's a weekly chore. Every week two bandmates leave and come back with bags full of food and such; who has shopping duties isn't really set, but it used to be the case that it was always _Flake_ and someone. Not at the moment, though. So far no one has thought Flake hanging up his apron especially odd. But the point is, this time Richard volunteers to go, and Till comes with him as a way of assuaging his boredom.   
  
That's exactly what Richard wanted. Throughout the shopping he remains cheerful, almost too much so, but for most part it goes unnoticed. True, maybe him forgetting to get his cigarettes out of all things and needing to be reminded by the singer is taking it too far. And maybe Till gives him an odd look over the cilantro and pasta, but if this is true, Richard is still too jubilant to care.  
  
"I'll drive," he offers as they're loading up the car with groceries. Till nods agreeably, pauses in the middle of loading kitchen towels into the trunk, fishes out his key from his pockets and tosses them to Richard. They both drive each other's cars sometimes, always with permission, and there's no real reason to suspect why this time won't be the same.  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust vom Schnee zu gehen**  
  
But it isn't the same.  
  
A girl walks down the road, short black hair glistening in the sun. Every article of clothing that she's wearing is black, even though it's summer. The wind at her back ruffles her summer jacket wildly as she strides her way into the future. Well, at least, until the moment Richard steps on the accelerator. "Motherfuck," he mumbles under his breath.  
  
"Richard, what the hell?!"  
  
Richard ignores him, damn near kicking the pedal through the floorboard and stepping on the gas; he jerks the wheel to the right, making Till fall hard against the passengers' window and making the right side of their red Honda Civic climb the curb and sweep the pavement. Of course the girl doesn't just keep walking; she lets out a shriek and starts bolting along the pavement, half-blindly running ahead in the way that only newly-recovered LASIK patients can do. Nevertheless it is very hard for a human being to outrun a car; indeed it looks as if she's about to be pulled underneath the vehicle, when she makes a sudden sharp turn and moves in a way that the car can't follow, escaping to write another day. "Nearly had her," Richard says, and it sounds like he should be lamenting but he isn't. He cheerfully keeps on driving, having gotten back down to the main elevation of the road. "ah, well, at least it was a good scare."  
  
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Richard?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Trying to run over that girl!"  
  
"What, the groupie?"  
  
"The what? Groupie of who?! _Us?_ She didn't even have anything Rammstein-related! She looked like a _student!_ "  
  
Richard laughs maniacally. "Student is right. Also a writer from the looks of it. Might as well be a groupie, though, I've seen what some kids are like, trying to put themselves through university. Really. It's sad. I was trying to do her a favour by putting her out of her misery. Or to teach her a lesson about metafiction. Whatever," he turns to look at Till, who is now very pale and staring wordlessly at him. "speaking of metafiction, seeing as trying to run her over didn't solve the problem, here it is. When am I going to get my end of the blowjob?"  
  
The singer's face contorts in half disgust and half disbelief. "Is _this_ what all that was about?"  
  
"It's fine if you don't want to, honestly. No one said bargains could only ever be fulfilled one way. But I need to get even with you, still," the younger man peers at the fuel levels; low, and probably in need of a refueling quite soon. The left turn will take them home from the shop; a little consideration later, and then he accelerates once more, hurtling into the Autobahn. "so let's go for a little ride."  
  
It is illegal to run out of fuel on the Autobahn.   
  
**Hab' keine Lust zu erfrieren**  
  
"Life at last."  
  
Twenty-five miles' worth of high-speed driving and the warning beep sounds, telling them they are dangerously low. Till takes this as a reason to shout at the guitarist to swerve to the right and into a convenient gas station and maybe talk about things there; Richard takes this as a reason to nod cheerfully and swerve into the left as it makes inherent sense to this culturally-British writer. It is easy to forget that other countries, in fact _most_ countries, drive on the right side of the road. But the messy conclusion is that they have swerved into a black Volkswagen Passat, and that they're now occupying the full width of a lane with the collective wreckage of their cars.  
  
Ah, well. They're the frontmen of an internationally-famous band. A single car might well be like a toy. Till can throw away one when it breaks and get another just as easily. "Just like me," he says, and laughs bitterly. It's not clear what he's comparing himself to, Till or the figurative toy. And as for the responsibility of the crash? Meh. He's Herr Richard fucking Kruspe with plenty of money, looks and great management; he can get it settled without this ever getting to court.  
  
Till is out cold, the airbag slowly deflating near his abdomen and chest, a bruise forming on his forehead. Blood trickles out of his nose, but he's still breathing and alive. Likewise, the owner of the Passat is slumped over the wheel, but as Richard watches, she twitches her arm slightly and shudders. All in all a success, Richard himself has come out relatively unscathed, and he feels more alive and fond of life than ever.  
  
"Face it, Till," Richard says brightly as the cops begin to surround them. Somewhere, in the distance, an ambulance howls. "you are right, everyone eventually gets fucked and people get bored with fucking them. They move onto others. Fucking them _over_ , though? _It never gets old._ "  
  
\-----  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
Holiday on Death Row.  
A month in.   
  
Olli cooks a meal for three for himself. On the kitchen table lies documents for Till's new car for when he comes home; their drummer will put them through the blender later for fun.  
Paul is plucking at his guitar, out of tune since a week ago. A newly broken metronome lies in pieces on the living room floor.  
In a hospital two miles away Richard is dumping cholesterol into Till's pancakes-for-lunch before he gives over the tray.  
Schneider is visiting at the hospital and blankly staring at the nurses, wondering how they can have such figures, and wondering what it'd feel like to be one.  
Till ponders similar things on the bed, wondering what it might feel like to see some of the nurses making out. (He didn't tell anyone in the band who caused the crash.)  
  
Not a single productive note or word produced in that month. This is meant to be the best thing for all of them. Flake can certainly attest to that, as he pulls his long-sleeved shirt and trousers back on in the bathroom, having weighed himself for the 180th time in four weeks.  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
Flake's weight is down to 65kg. Progress.  
  
Between busying himself with not eating _nor_ cooking, and relaxing himself with walking _most_ vigorously, Flake's also taken up the art of willful benightness in regards to affairs concerning those of his fellow acquaintances, a.k.a. Not Giving A Shit. The world is far more peaceful like that, when he's not meddling in other people's business. No one asks him what he's up to or invites him back into meddling with the lives either - quite understandably - so that all works out for him. He'll go back to being the Devil's advocate and the grumpy advisor figure later, but for now, he can indulge in himself and no one else. He's been enjoying his detachment from everyday life so much that he didn't even realize that Till and Richard were in an accident and that the former was in hospital until two whole days later,  
  
The nightmare hasn't occurred again. But he's a good self-motivator, and he certainly hasn't let himself forget it. All this without protein shakes or celebrity endorsed diets.  
Ha! Where's your goddamn capitalism now?  
  
Meanwhile, in the living room, Paul's out-of-tune guitar is feeling the strain. An instrument can only be out of tune for so long before it starts doing things beyond their nature. Without a metronome Paul has to make an extra effort to tune anything at all - Flake has always been the pitch-perfect one who helped with manual tuning, until now - and when he twists a knob a little too tightly and carelessly, the E-string gives way and snaps with a loud crack, lashing him straight on the face and leaving a long shallow cut behind.  
  
"Ah, fuck!" he screams, and pushes away the guitar. "guys? Guys, I need some help!"  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
In retrospect he could have just walked to the bathroom and patched himself up, but it's still kind of scary. Flake's always been there to patch him up before anybody whenever he's gotten himself into trouble, quite often without him even asking. But Paul actively has to seek him out this time, he's somehow become deaf to the guitarist's calls; besides, he's occupying the bathroom anyway, so either way he has to resort to several attempts at knocking to get anywhere.  
  
Flake finally pokes his head out, annoyed, at the fifth attempt. "What do you want?"  
  
"Bleeding," Paul says weakly, and shows him the cut. The keyboardist just looks at it for a while, seemingly contemplating whether he ought to shut the door on the other's face or help him out; before sighing heavily and choosing the latter.  
  
"Come on, then," he says impatiently, and leads them both into the kitchen where Olli is eating the meal for three. He doesn't look back nor say anything as they pull out chairs and sit down (Flake reaching for the first-aid kit hidden in the drawer since God knows when), simply tucking into the roasted lamb and peas. The keyboardist opens the kit and looks at the expiry date on the ointment; three years ago. But he decides that expiry dates are for wimps, so says nothing about it and dabs a little onto his finger. "hold still."  
  
Paul cherishes moments like those. Even when their bassist is devouring half of everything in the house in front of him.  
  
 **Nein, ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
"I think the recording took a lot out of you, Flake, you barely cook for yourself now. Let alone anybody. Times like those I feel like I deprived you of too much and that maybe I shoved a responsibility that you didn't need in your life upon you, back in 1994. You thought Rammstein was silly. Probably still do, only now that you're entitled to a fair share of our shenanigans, you whimsical bastard. But either way if you've ever felt like that recently then I want to say sorry because you deserve so much more than that. You shouldn't need to feel that way, Flake. Honest to God. If there were things I could do to make it better I'd do it in a heartbeat. Cook you borscht. Polish your keyboard keys. Not erase all your samples and piss you off like Risch does. Bring you breakfast in bed. Change your bedsheets. Give you a massage. You name it, I'd do it, and if it made you happy then it'd be all worth it."  
  
"... I like you. Appreciate you. You're a wonderful friend."  
  
"That's what you always say," Flake says indifferently, and turns around. "three hundred Euros. In my wallet. Yours. Go buy yourself a champagne or something and leave me alone."  
  
"Anyone for dessert?" Olli says, and tosses down his cutlery.  
  
\-----  
  
 **Ich hab' keine Lust etwas zu kauen**  
  
Holiday on Death Row.  
Six weeks in.  
  
Till returns home; now he nurses the ache left by a whiplash and becomes uncannily quiet, but that's pretty much it. He burns his notebooks in the garden and cooks Richard a carbonara.  
Richard responds by not eating it and sprinkling it liberally with broken razor blades. He has taken to rocking back and forth in the corner. The stray cats scratch at the back door in hunger.  
The bathroom scale is broken, so Flake got himself a new one. He is down to 60kg. He's wearing five layers at home and no less.   
Olli makes an attempt to hang himself. The rope is too long, though, so he ends up awkwardly jumping onto the floor when he kicks the stool he's standing on.  
In a hospital two miles away, Paul is now complaining about the scar on his cheek and possible secondary infection.  
  
A fresh batch of tulips have been brought in; Schneider takes care of them this time. He leaves only the yellow heads, pruning away the rest, and tosses them in the vase before pouring coffee all over them, watching them slowly wilting in the heat.   
  
There are two types of people. Those who leave the green stems, bursting with life but bland - and those who leave the heads, bright and beautiful but so quick to fade.  
What the fuck does that metaphor even mean?   
  
**Denn ich hab' keine Lust es zu verdauen**  
  
No one is admitting it downright, and arguably most of the bandmates have not noticed, but they are approaching close to breaking point. After all, they are musicians who united over certain similarities in their desired genre of music, their respective muses, their liking for each other - and whilst it's not obvious, they're also clinging to their music all the time, hoping to be saved from their own self-destruction.   
  
That feeling of lacking self-worth, that unapologetic apathy; it doesn't just go away when you refuse to acknowledge it. After ten years of relying on music as the sole outlet for all of that, they're beginning to come apart; it wouldn't have been so terrible had they been allowed to leave the damn house, but they aren't.   
  
It is Olli who noticed first. It's always the quiet ones. Hell, he knew before even a month into the holiday; he suggested a casual jam session with Till and Schneider back then, and found that none of them could create anything that sounded melodic or was at least cathartic in some way. Surrounded by the odd and casually sociopathic antics of his bandmates, all of whom have turned to madness to conceal their emotions, he could only come up with his own drastic theatrics to try to blend in. But it's not working any more. How can musicians who can't even jam properly for half an hour hope to finish a highly-awaited album even after the holiday?  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust mich zu wiegen**  
  
The bassist decides that enough is enough when Flake can't get out of bed one morning.  
  
"Please try," he says - voice coming out flatter and less sincere than he'd like, due to lack of use - but all the keyboardist does in response is to groan and stare blearily at him for a moment before curling straight back up again. Other pleadings prove to be just as successful, which means not at all; eventually he becomes too frustrated to handle this any further, and simply throws the covers to the floor before taking a good look at Flake. The closest look anyone's had at Flake for weeks. "what on earth are you doing to yourself?"  
  
"... 'm fine," is the mumbled answer. A bald-faced lie, and the bassist tells him as much, a comment that earns him another groan. His ribs might not be showing through just yet, but it won't be long before they will, his entire body feels too uncomfortably hard beneath Olli's fingertips. Each touch appears to hurt Flake as well, something that shouldn't be happening. Then the man shivers and asks (quietly, through gritted teeth) that he give the blankets back.  
  
Olli looks at him for a long time. Then he slowly bends down and picks up the blanket, climbing into the bed himself and putting the blanket over them both; Flake doesn't protest, and they simply lie next to each other, the keyboardist dozing off and Olli staring intensely at the ceiling. Something must be done. Some sort of recognition is required from their bandmates, and if he needs to resort to drastic measures, so be it.  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust im Fett zu liegen**  
  
Said opportunity comes a lot sooner than expected; Till calls everyone for an impromptu meeting around seven o'clock that night, and for once in several weeks they're all paying attention. It's about Nele - surely no one has forgotten that she was meant to be having a day with Till before his accident? - and he really can't put it off any longer, he'd like to go tomorrow and take her shopping while he still can. In fact, he'd like to stay three days with her, and there are plenty of rooms free in the house where Gitta and Nele live. Would they all like to accompany him?  
  
Richard nods towards the corner; he has a little suitcase packed already. It's actually his emergency suitcase filled with clothes, passport copies, several hundred Euros, a first-aid kit, a Swiss army knife, towel and wash kit, alternate identity papers should he need to fake his death, cologne, and chocolate cigarettes - all that, just in case there's a fire or something and he needs to bail out of the house; but either way, he's made his point. "Sure, why not," Schneider stops staring up at the ceiling long enough to answer, "it'd give me peace of mind."  
  
"I'm for it," Paul says, fixing a band-aid over the cut on his cheek, using his phone as a mirror.  
  
"Well, I'm going to stay here. Someone's going to need to look after the house. Give Nele much love from me," Olli says, and stands up, faking a stretch and watching out of the corner of his eye to see if anyone has noticed at all.   
  
"That's settled, then. Everyone's going except for Olli," Till nods at him curtly. "we leave at eight tomorrow."  
  
"And Flake?" the bassist asks, having confirmed that he's been heard.  
  
"I hope you're prepared to shop for hours. Carry the bags. I plan to spoil her to bits."  
  
Richard lights up a cigarette and Paul groans slightly, but it's not a hostile groan. "And Flake?" Olli tries again.  
  
"Let's go and get some eats, then. Come with me, Schneider?" Richard throws Till a look. The singer mouths ‘fuck you' and he draws back, scowling.  
  
Well, that's it, then. To the others, Flake's soul might as well have disappeared, along with over fifteen kilograms of him. Heads down, fucking losing it.   
Olli goes upstairs. Looks down at the keyboardist, bundled up in blankets, and tosses another two over him before he takes out the phone and calls the locksmith.  
  
 **Ich hätte Lust mit grossen Tieren**  
  
Three days, a bewildered-but-cheerful locksmith, and five autographed albums later, the house has undergone a grand transformation. The front and back doors have had their locks changed to something radically different, along with a new feature - a chain - added altogether to the former. The windows also require locking now, the small keys for them laid out on their respective windowsills, and so do the kitchen cupboards. The bedrooms and the bathrooms are a little different; they've been brightened up, as such. That means that he had the locksmith take out all the locking mechanisms and replace them with identical ones. A man's got to be able to sleep in comfort, either way. Flake would attest to that, currently lying on his bed, unable to do anything and continuously pleading that he is too cold.  
  
Not much news from the others. Schneider called back once and told him about how they went to the park with Nele and fed _foie gras_ to geese, but that was about it. It is five in the afternoon when two cars pull up into the driveway. One is Schneider's, and the other happens to be the bassist's own - incredible, considering Olli never gave permission for anybody to drive his car - but it doesn't matter. Car doors shut, voices talk amongst each other, and there is a jangling of keys. It isn't long before the peace is shattered.  
  
"Son of a bitch!" Schneider screams, dropping his bag and scrabbling at the door handle. "that son of a _bitch!_ He's changed the locks!"  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust es zu riskieren**  
  
Olli is actually sitting right in front of the door when they all come back. He smiles a little when he realizes that Schneider's the one at the door; he would have preferred Till at first glance, but come to think of it now, the drummer's been extremely wound up recently. Tulip heads aren't the only things he destroyed; the papier-mache he made out of Till's car documents should prove that. He's certainly destructive enough, he'll do. Olli stands up and slides off the lid on the peephole to check that it really is him, then opens the door, making sure to keep the chain in place. "You're back."  
  
"Is this some kind of joke?" Schneider snarls at him immediately. Rage is dancing in his pupils. Quite beautiful. "what have you changed the locks for? To keep us out? You think that's funny, do you?"  
  
"Drop dead."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
Olli looks at Schneider straight in the eyes. "Drop dead."  
  
The older man isn't having any of that. Almost immediately he launches into a coarse, harshly-spoken diatribe about how Olli is a waste of space and he's not looking forward to seeing what else he's managed to fuck up in the house, and that if he's damaged his drumkit he'll personally have the bassist's head on a platter, why did he change all the locks in the house, how all that must have cost them all a fortune and does he know where all that money's being leeched from, how much he hates the younger man and will make sure that others do as well and just plain why. Why. The magic word. Really, they should all be sitting down together and asking each other that over and over again until they achieve peace. Why has everything fallen to pieces, why's Flake anorexic, why is everyone so irrationally sociopathic and furious?   
  
"Because it made my dick tingle," Olli says calmly when the drummer is forced to stop for breath. "that's why, you uppity fuck."  
  
Then he closes the door again, locks, chains and bolts it, and replaces the lid on the peephole before going upstairs to help Flake. Schneider's rage will do the rest of the work.  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust vom Schnee zu gehen**  
  
Flake is almost too light when Olli finally gets him to sit up. The only food that the younger man has on him is a bar of half-eaten chocolate, so that's what he'll have to make do with; it takes a little coaxing, but eventually the older man looks at him in half-annoyance. "Eat," the bassist says briskly. Flake stares at him for a moment, waiting for more, but there is nothing else; had he talked more he'd have refused, but as Olli is no longer giving him a choice about anything, he can only take a square and chew on it obediently.  
  
He probably likes it better that way. Fuck capitalism, again. All of those damn choices that you don't want or need.  
  
The pounding is still going on at the front door. Olli takes no notice and picks up Flake, ignoring the other's protests about how he's not a five-year old and can move around perfectly well by himself. They go downstairs, and Olli sits him on the chair that he himself was sitting in, the one by the front door, but only after moving it to the middle of the kitchen. "Stay here," he orders, and props his back up with a cushion. Then the bassist takes a deep breath, and moves on to tackle the one thing left intentionally neglected by the band: the practice room.  
  
Flake closes his eyes. He is so tired that he falls straight back asleep.  
The chair an electric chair. He is asleep on Death Row.  
  
Soon this holiday's going to be the end of him.  
  
 **Hab' keine Lust zu erfrieren**  
  
Back outside, Richard is telling the drummer to please calm down and they'll be able to get inside. He throws him a bottle of pills and tells him to have one or five, which Schneider does quieten down long enough to do; but it's not much use. "I can't believe this," he mumbles as he crunches the pills between his teeth. "what's he hiding from us that's so horrifying that he's - he's had to change all the locks to stop us seeing it? If only God magically placed a convenient axe nearby for the sake of us being able to break in faster."  
  
"Right there?" Paul says timidly, pointing at the side of the house where the words ' _Im Notfallen_ ' have been scrawled in paint upon an external fire hose cabinet. It springs open without resistance when Schneider lunges at it; and indeed, tangled within the depths of the fire hose is a conveniently encased fire axe.   
  
"Oh, bad- _fucking_ -ass," the drummer nigh-moans out, and with one strong tug pulls the weapon out and rushes over to the door. Till is the only one who's been keeping relatively calm so far, and while all of this is going on he smoothly unlocks the garage (that's one thing that wasn't altered) and ventures inside, peering at the back door. None of this is noticed by the rest.  
  
"Doom, put that down! What if a cop saw?"  
  
"What if a cop _saw,_ " Schneider hollers as he raises the fire axe. The first swing bounces harmlessly off the handle. "it's our own goddamn house and I'll go to hell-" the second swing is more successful, the blade of the axe burying itself into the middle with a thick cracking sound. "-if I can't assert my own right to _get into it!_ "  
  
Technically, Olli and Flake being inside the house, it's _their_ house too and they also have the right to stop anybody breaking into it.   
Paul and Richard know this, but God forbid you want to piss off anybody with an axe.   
  
Meanwhile, Till takes a heavy wrench from a toolbox at the back of the garage, paying no mind to the sounds of the front door splintering. He weighs it in his hand thoughtfully for a while, then steps back, takes aim, and hurls it at the glass panels of the door. It shatters the whole panel effectively, glass shards flying inwards where Olli was standing not awfully long ago; after a brief wince he walks forwards and puts an arm through the hole, feeling for the turn lock. Much to his satisfaction, there is one, and it yields smoothly to his touch.  
  
 **Ich bleibe einfach liegen**  
  
The door to the practice room used to be a cupboard door. It has a doorknob that can't be turned, only grasped and either pushed or pulled. No locks to begin with, at all. And as Olli steps into the room, neglected by all of them for over a month, he can't help but feel sick inside at seeing the dust that's settled on everything. After their ill-fated jam session they left things be, still set up and guitars connected to amps and whatnot, all ready to go just by turning the switch on and putting in actual effort. Then they closed the door and forgot all about it ever since, too discouraged to try, making excuses and saying that they were too burnt out to do anything. Losing themselves in mindless spending and hurting instead.  
  
He walks in proper, turning on the light switch. It is very quiet in there; there are no windows and the walls are thickly soundproofed, which meant that for the majority of the time they spent here, they had massive fans going in the room that had to be turned off every time they began recording. Richard's basket of fancy guitar picks is sitting on a large speaker; some glass, some acrylic, some metal. Paul's new portable amp and distortion pedal in the corner, and his own envelope filter bought in a rush of materialist extravagance just beneath his foot. Olli kicks it aside; he doesn't need it, and never did. Why should he bother making his bass sound like a bass being played on a synthesizer, when they have an actual keyboardist on board to take care of that sort of thing?   
  
To be entirely honest, all the instruments set up now are expensive ones too, bought to be shown off on tours rather than actually making music that is worthy of being pressed on countless CDs. He's rather disgusted by it all. Unbeknownst to him, now that he's having this epiphany, he'd probably have found a kindred spirit in Flake if he'd bothered to talk to the older man more often and if the latter wasn't nearly passed out on a chair.  
  
Their entire _raison d’être_ and their key to sanity, left hidden before the only fucking lockless door in the house. He could laugh until he cries.  
It's time to destroy the boundary. His bass is the first to go; he marches over and disconnects it by stepping on the cable and tearing the bass free of it. The moment he whirls around and throws it out of the room, Till enters the kitchen after sidestepping the glass - and the front door finally gives way, Schneider breaking through with a roar.  
  
 **Und wieder zähle ich die Fliegen**  
  
 _"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Oliver Riedel?!"_  
  
A snare drum flies past and lands on the ground by Flake's feet.   
  
"Stop it! _Stop it right now!_ "  
  
"This one's for you, Till!" a microphone rolls across the floor. They're all broken.   
Flake, even though sluggish, knows enough to see that Olli is only throwing out the fancier instruments.  
  
"Olli, for God's sake, let's _talk_ about this!" Till never calls him 'Olli'. Huh.   
  
The vase filled with rotten tulip heads and coffee topples over, spilling its contents everywhere.  
Flake winces. To be honest, they haven't even been doing dishes for the past week or so.   
  
All dusty.  
  
Rotting.  
  
"I'll make sure you'll never have a job again if you _don't put my Les Paul down_ , Riedel!"  
  
"Risch, I'm fairly sure-" Crash.  
  
 _Rotting._  
  
This is his nightmare.  
  
"-that's mine-"  
  
and then he's not sure what's happening anymore but his instincts are still working well enough for him to raise his arms and stop things getting ugly when his keyboard-and-stand is shoved out of the door, sliding across the linoleum somehow without breaking to pieces, and he grunts a little, winded, as he stares at his precious keyboard (still connected to the wall too and functioning as he can see when he experimentally flicks the power switch, extension cord unraveled to straining point) and wonders when was the last time he touched a piano or keyboard or even thought of a tune and that's very odd and kind of disturbing considering he's a musician and that kind of thing should have been his second nature but isn't that already the case? but even as he's reflecting on all of this the fight keeps on going and schneider punches olli in the solar plexus but olli is so goddamn tall and determined that he doesn't even flinch and swings another clean punch back in retaliation and the guitarists are just trying to save their guitars strings trailing behind them and the cables tied together when a jostle from till's elbow ends up shoving paul over and right onto flake's lap and then what is going on _what have they done?_  
  
Flake looks at him. Mouths an 'I love you'. Then miraculously, out of sheer will alone, he helps Paul to the ground and stumbles on his weakened knees, forcing himself to get to his feet. He sways lightly and has to grab the keyboard for balance; his palm slams down onto the keys, a mess of notes blasting out and cutting everybody short.  
  
And he is finally standing.  
  
 **Lustlos fasse ich mich an**  
  
Neither Olli nor Flake have been hiding anything unearthly and hideous from the rest of the band. The problem belongs to all six of them.  
They've only ever been hiding from themselves after all. The sound of the keyboard has brought it all back.  
  
Till opens his mouth. Then he begins to scream.  
  
 **Und merke bald ich bin schon lange kalt**  
  
It is not a horrified scream. It's more like a metal scream, almost like the one he utilized in the ending of one of their yet-to-be-released tracks about horrible marriages. And in a way, that's what their _ménage à six_ is about. One huge screwed up marriage.   
  
Schneider is the next to react. "Oh, what the hell!" he cries out; he drops the snare drum and makes a grab at his drumsticks on the side, holding them as he would a dagger, and attacking his drums with it. It's not so much drumming as it's more of a savage attempt to tear the whole thing to pieces, simple kickbacks reduced to actual kicks on the bass drum, steel-toed boots rapidly beginning to scrape away a hole in the center. Flake gulps, and presses 'record' with one trembling finger.  
  
It sounds very much like death. But in between that, there is music, no matter ugly and distorted, and this kickstarts all of them into a cathartic madness. They haven't heard it for so long that they feel it almost like an adrenaline injection piercing their hearts, bringing back memories of mindless indulgence and being at one another's throats that they would rather erase, bringing back the muse that had been lost for so long. They're all shouting their own thing, no longer paying mind to any other noise but their own - a hellish orchestra of rage and newfound power.  
  
Somewhere along this, once the initial battering-the-instrument stage has dissipated, it sinks in for all six of them that for the first time in two months, they’re united in something. It sinks in that they're actually making music. Schneider's kicks and thumps soon develop into a rapid drumbeat, Olli's bass sounds beautifully sluggish and lethargic, Richard has somehow managed to grasp at a simple riff that they haven't used before. It's ridiculous, their instruments are hopelessly untuned and some beyond repair - but in this particular frenzy that doesn't matter. They have been doing this for years. They haven't lost themselves for so long that they can't figure out how to turn noise into some sort of listenable harmony.  
  
But eventually their strength runs out. The cold from the smashed front and back doors are seeping in, and the spell breaks when Till finally sinks down onto his knees, closing his eyes and panting. The rest drift off into silence. With shaking hands, Flake reaches out - and hits the 'record' button once more, the click bringing them back to the real world once and for all.  
"You've gotten so _thin,_ " Paul says, and begins to weep.  
  
 **So kalt, mir ist kalt...**  
  
Later that night, sitting below the moon, they are silent. The front door is hanging by its hinges and the house is a mess, better stay out in nature. Weeks of silence and ennui, broken like a poorly-situated dam; exhaustion has overtaken them completely. Paul and Olli had enough strength left to heat up a can of chicken soup for Flake (which the man is devouring with gusto right now, sitting there on the grass, bundled up and blowing occasionally at the surface of the bowl), and that's really all they've managed to do.  
  
Doesn't matter. Probably a hell lot more meaningful than anything else they've done for a while. Till comes back with a bowl of cherries and sets them down in front of Richard as a peace offering. "I'm sorry," he mumbles.  
  
Richard looks up. "I'm sorry," he too mumbles, hesitates, and takes a cherry. The August moon is cool. Somewhat sticky and humid too. But nobody really minds anymore. Schneider sighs heavily and winces as his wrists - rubbed raw from earlier - brush against the ground, then he looks over.   
  
"Flake," the keyboardist looks up from his soup. "... you have the recording? Everything?"  
  
"Of course. I couldn't not save it." Schneider nods slowly at this, and leans against the numberplate of Till's car.  
  
 **... Mir ist kalt**  
  
"... Good. Because we're putting that on the album."  
  
\-----  
  
... **Ich hab' keine Lust**  
  
The holiday is over.   
  
The morning after, they roll up their sleeves and begin to clean as if it were spring again. The vase is cleaned and put away, the dishes are done and new groceries bought. The front door is re-attached, and the door to the practice room is permanently left ajar with the help of a hefty doorstop. No one ever forgets themselves and their music again for the remainder of their stay in the house.   
  
Flake begins eating and cooking again.   
Till begins to write again, and also resumes singing softly around the place.   
Richard pushes away the laptop, and the stray cats are getting themselves a feast every day again. (Still no slash fanfiction.)  
The long cut on Paul's cheek heals up after a course of antibiotics and rest, leaving nothing but the faintest of scars behind.   
Olli goes back to using his sturdy, comfortable bass.   
Schneider gets anger management. All is good.   
  
It is now January, the autumn and winter gone in a new wave of success after their album, 'Reise, Reise'. The cacophony they recorded has been cleaned up, the riffs extracted and lyrics reflecting their situation written for it; that's what Flake is dealing with it now. "I like this idea," the soon-to-be director of their music video says, looking over the written synopsis and the storyboard. "we can arrange for the fat suits, no problem. And you-" he looks over the stack of papers at the keyboardist, now a comfortable 73kgs, sitting in front of him. "-wanted to be the one left behind at the end."  
  
"Absolutely. We all agreed on it, hands down."  
  
"I took note of that. How about we keep you thin, too? Unresponsive, weak-looking but manages to get on your feet at the very end whilst the other guys drive off," Flake thinks about it, and nods in confirmation. That fits in perfectly with his vision. "I used to be thin like you once. Would kill for the dietary control you've got. Do you work out or something?"  
  
Blink. Blink. Small inhale, memories suppressed. "No," the keyboardist says, and smiles gently. "I don't work out at all."  
  
"We'll keep you without the padding," the director scribbles a note. "you'll get to sit down for almost all of the shoot, I should think. Act silent, half comatose. Autistic. Can you do that, Flake?"  
  
Flake nods and shakes the man's hand. Then he tidies his documents, and brushes a lock of his now-long hair back, tucking it gently behind his ear. He closes his blue eyes once, opens them, and smiles.  
  
"Don't use 'autistic' as a term of referring to people who couldn't care less or are otherwise incapacitated, you politically incorrect fuck," he says, and walks out to face the bright new day.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this under influence of both a request from tumblr and KFC. God bless.
> 
> The themes running through this story are numerous and some keep reoccurring - but I think the important theme is self-validation. Everyone in this story is trying to define themselves either according to someone else or for an ideal not fully their own. Not even Flake, the most self-concerned one, is really himself. And this isn't really working out for anybody because someone else is always ruining it. This is the concept of mauvaise foi, 'bad faith' as Sartre puts it in his book 'Being and Nothingness'. We as humans are free and responsible for every choice we make in life; but the burden of responsibility is too heavy and quite terrifying, because then you can't make excuses that you were only doing your job or whatnot. So people conform themselves to a sort of bad faith, passing their responsibility to others, fooling themselves into thinking that they are not free, etc to avoid that burden. Instead of determining ourselves and taking our own future in our hands, we pass it off to other people and hope for others to validate our existence. In a sense, we are all like that. But how other people see and judge us destroy the bad faith, for the better or worse.
> 
> That's what his play 'No Exit' is about. The Hell of 'Theyness'. No one will let you be comfortable. 'Holiday on Death Row' is all about a six-way mauvaise foi.
> 
> Wonderful ride, this one. Disgusting, terrifying, but fantastic as hell to write.


End file.
